


Damage Control

by unsettled



Series: Deep End [4]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Far From Home
Genre: Blow Jobs, Boss/Employee Relationship, Consent Issues, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Humiliation, M/M, POV Quentin Beck, Pre-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Sass, Semi-Public Sex, quentin is getting more in over his head by the second, slight come play, tony's still kind of an asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:07:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28310610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: Quentin cannot believe the nerve of Tony— showing up in the middle of the day, in front of everyone Quentin works with, so Quentin can give him a blowjob behind barely closed doors? Is he insane?Sure, it's really hot, and Quentin isn't 100% against it. He's not going to say no.But he's really starting to wonder what might happen if he did.
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Tony Stark
Series: Deep End [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982066
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	Damage Control

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_me09](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_me09/gifts).



> Have some more sassy, overwhelmed Q/T for Christmas! :)

"Beck!"

Quentin jerks. "What?" he snaps, even though he shouldn't be using that tone on them. They're still his supervisor. For now.

But he's so— on edge lately. On edge today, after the other night, after all of last fucking week and Tony's stupid, excessive gestures. Tony's— Tony's everything.

"You've got a visitor; he's waiting for you," they say, nodding at one of the stupid glass walled offices across from the lab. Quentin looks over.

Fuck.  _ Fuck. _

Tony looks up when Quentin opens the door; looks down, rather, from staring up at the ceiling while spinning idly back and forth in his chair. "What are you doing here?" Quentin asks, and he can just feel everyone staring at them behind his back. They're such gossips, always so hungry for drama.

“Hi to you too,” Tony says. The corner of his mouth quirks up. “See, I was just sitting there, thinking about how much I wanted your mouth, and then it occurred to me that I didn't have to just sit there after all.”

Quentin stiffens. "What?" he says. "Really? Are you insane? I am at  _ work, _ Tony. I'm fucking— it's the middle of the day. Everyone I work with is probably staring at us right this second, wondering what you’re about to chew me out for, and you want me to give you a fucking blowjob?"

He cannot believe this. The nerve of Tony, to just— barge in here, into Quentin’s space, and act like he can just have Quentin whenever he wants.

Tony's smirking now, openly, and Quentin doesn't want to think about what people are seeing. It’s small consolation that at least these offices are sound proof, but this still has to look bad. "Yeah," Tony says. “That's exactly what I was thinking. FRIDAY,” he adds, “take care of the privacy issue, will you?” and the glass all around them goes frosted, opaque. Quentin stares.

“Oh, that helped,” he snaps. “Now they know something’s going on.”

Tony raises an eyebrow and crooks his finger at Quentin, spreading his legs. Quentin shakes his head, slowly, but he already knows how this is going to go. "I'm at work," he says again as he goes to Tony, but it's weaker, defeated.

"Didn't bother you last time I was down here," Tony says, which is true. And Quentin can’t completely deny that— that the thought of being watched, of everyone out there knowing what’s going on is... still something of a turn on.

“I think I can get the boss to give you a special dispensation,” Tony says, and it feels like he’s mocking Quentin.

That’s not the problem, Quentin thinks of saying, but there’s no point. Tony’s not going to give a fuck that he’ll get to leave without a whisper, while Quentin is going to look used and smell like sex and there’s not going to be any keeping this quiet, whatever Tony might think. It’s going to change what people think of him. 

Maybe Tony doesn’t care, but Quentin  _ does. _

He gets on his knees. 

“There you go,” Tony murmurs. “It’s cute when you protest, like you expect me to believe you don’t want this.”

Quentin’s hands still on the fastening of Tony’s slacks, and he can feel his face heating. He doesn’t look up, just concentrates on getting Tony’s cock out and in his mouth.

Weirdly enough, he hasn’t given Tony a blowjob yet. They’ve been... busy with other things. He knows what Tony’s cock feels like inside him, in his hand, up against his own, but not in his mouth. 

He teases Tony a little, taking his time and licking at his cock first, acting like he’s about to go down on it and then pulling back a little instead, every time, letting the tip rub against his lips before he moves back down, licking and kissing his way. 

Tony’s hands are in his hair, starting to twist it up, pulling just a little, and Quentin knows he’s right on the edge of taking over; well, Quentin’s not going to give him the chance. 

He gets a groan from Tony when he takes him in his mouth, a brief, painful tightening of fingers in his hair. He huffs around his mouthful, protesting, and a moment later Tony’s… almost petting his hair instead, soft. 

Tony’s not all that long, but he is thick, and dripping precome like crazy; it’s a little tricky to keep his lips sealed around Tony’s cock the whole time he’s bobbing his head. It starts leaking out the corner of his mouth, messy and slick.

“Fuck,” Tony says. “Of course you’d give sloppy head.”

Quentin jerks off his cock, glaring up at Tony. “If you’ve got such a problem with it,” he says, “feel free to get it somewhere else. You’re the one that wanted this.”

Tony’s smirking at him, entirely unperturbed and Quentin hates that. Tony should at least acknowledge the favor Quentin’s doing him here. He doesn’t  _ have _ to cater to Tony. Tony’s hand slides down, curling around the nape of Quentin’s neck, pulling him back in; Quentin resists for a moment, Tony’s cock pressing at his lips. Gives in a second later, mouth opening, still glaring at Tony as best he can.

“What I was going to say,” Tony tells him, “before you threw your little fit, was that of course you give sloppy head; everything about you is just perfect.”

Quentin stops, his mouth going soft around Tony’s cock. That’s— that’s not something Tony’s ever said to him. “Yeah,” Tony says, pulling Quentin further down on him, “maybe you should start listening before you get all snappy at me.”

He clenches his hand in Quentin’s hair then, holding him in place, and starts thrusting into his mouth instead. “Maybe not,” Tony says. “I do like a smart-ass. Wouldn’t want you to get too easy; it’s so much more fun when you’re a little trouble,” and fuck, Quentin likes that, likes that Tony recognizes it. After all, isn’t Quentin well worth whatever trouble he might be? 

He’s more than willing to be a little more so if Tony’s going to appreciate it properly. 

“God, Quentin. Look at you, taking me so well,” Tony groans as he goes deeper, Quentin closing his eyes, pushing himself to not gag as the tip brushes against the back of his throat, over and over. “So fucking good. Doesn’t matter where I put it, does it; you’re a cock hungry slut no matter how I fuck you.” 

Quentin’s hands are digging into Tony’s thighs and he’s so hard, so turned on by how into this Tony is, how into Quentin he is. Maybe Tony’s the one fucking his mouth, but Quentin’s the one that can make Tony come whenever he wants, can make Tony look at him, want him.

“Look at me,” Tony says, a rasp in his voice. “Want to see you, handsome,” and when Quentin opens his eyes, glances up, catching Tony’s gaze, Tony sucks in a breath. “Fuck,” he says. “You have no idea how much I want to use your mouth till you can’t even talk, want to come all over your face while you look as fucked stupid as you do now. I’m being— shit, ugh— I’m being so nice to you, just coming in your mouth, letting you swallow— fuck!” and he’s coming, filling Quentin’s mouth. 

He makes a helpless sound around Tony’s cock as he tries to swallow fast enough, nearly choking on it; some of it oozes out of the corners of his mouth anyway. More, when Tony pulls out, dripping come down Quentin’s chin. He wipes it off best he can with the back of his hand; it’s too much to hope Tony’d actually have something to clean up with. 

Tony sighs, long and loud. “Worth it,” he says. “Gonna have to have your mouth so much more often, sweetheart,” and Quentin really hopes that’s in general rather than like this. 

“By the way,” Tony says, catching Quentin’s chin, rubbing his thumb over Quentin’s bottom lip, still wet, tacky. “I almost forgot. Did you like your ‘something nice’?”

Quentin stares at him blankly, struggling to make sense of it. Wait— oh.  _ Oh. _ The fucking— he didn’t ask for it, didn’t want— it doesn’t matter if he likes what Tony gives him or not, he doesn’t like the feeling of being… paid off. 

“I’m not going to say thank you,” Quentin says, his voice rough. 

The smile grows slowly across Tony’s face, broad, almost smug. He presses down on Quentin’s lip, harder. “I wouldn’t expect you to,” he says. Slips his thumb into Quentin's mouth, holding down his tongue. 

Quentin narrows his eyes and sets his teeth against Tony’s skin, hard enough Tony can’t pull away. Tony just— fucking laughs, low. “There’s nothing sweet about you today, is there,” he says. 

Keeps his thumb there a moment longer after Quentin lets it go. “Is there ever?” Quentin says, because he is not  _ sweet. _

Tony gets his hand against Quentin’s throat, lightly curved around it, thumb and finger pressed into the edge of his jaw. “Yes,” he says. “Alright, trouble. Lemme see you get off; I know you’re close.”

“I— but—” Quentin starts, because what, Tony wants him to just pull his cock out and jack off like this? It’s not that he doesn’t want to come, but he doesn’t want to think about the mess, about how he’s not going to have the convenience of a nice warm mouth to get rid of it in. 

But Tony knows, he’s sure, and Tony does not care. He doesn’t have a lot of fucks to give when it comes to making anything easier for Quentin. “Fuck,” Quentin mutters. “Fine,” and he rushes through pulling his cock out, getting his hand around it. It won’t take long; he is close, has been for ages. 

It doesn’t— help, doesn’t help, that Tony’s grip on his face doesn’t ease, that Tony keeps it tipped up, staring down at him. Keeping Quentin on display, watching like this if for his amusement. And shit, Quentin likes that,  _ wants _ Tony to look at him, but it’s— it’s the way Tony is holding him there, trapping him there, that stirs up something else inside him. Something hot and almost nervous and nearly humiliated. 

It’s so quiet in here now that every noise Quentin makes seems obscenely loud; the sound of his breath, harsh and fast as he gets closer, the wet slap of his hand on his cock, the broken gasp when he tries to swallow under Tony’s hand. He whines, horrible and needy, fucking up into his hand at the same time. 

“Better be careful what you come on,” Tony says, and fuck, Quentin knew it, he knew Tony had thought of it and didn’t care, god— 

He’s pretty sure he manages to aim away from himself, from Tony, as he comes, jerking forward into Tony’s hand around his neck and groaning. He shudders, gasping, and Tony still keeps him pinned in place, still keeps his face on display even as Quentin goes limp enough he’s nearly hanging from Tony’s hand. Lets him go, finally, thumb tracing along the line of Quentin’s jaw, and his head drops against Tony’s thigh, pressed into it and feeling blank.

Tony’s hands are in his hair again, slowly, gently scraping against his scalp. Soft, the sort of thing that’d send shivers all down his spine if it was just a touch harder. It’s nice. 

He opens his eyes after a bit, glancing down, and it looks like he did manage to miss coming all over himself. Almost managed to miss Tony as well, though he might not have minded that; just a few lines and drips on his shoe. He sighs and shuffles back, ducked out of Tony’s hold. 

“You’d better clean that up,” Tony says, sliding his foot forward. “Unless you want me walking out of here with your come on me.” Quentin huffs; fuck no. 

Of course Tony didn’t bring anything to clean up with, or if he did, he’s not offering it to Quentin. He reaches down; guess he’ll just get it on his hands like everything else, and make a run for the bathroom as soon as Tony lets him go.

“Ah!” Tony says, sharp, yanking his foot back, out of Quentin’s reach. “Not like that, Quentin. You know what I want.”

Quentin stares at him again; he hates how he feels stupid all the sudden, like he can’t make obvious connections. 

And then he does and wishes he hadn’t. Tony— Tony wants it like it was for the armor. Tony wants him to fucking lick it up off his  _ shoe—  _

It isn’t thought through, isn’t controllable, the way he physically recoils at the thought, his back straightening, his whole body tensing as he jerks back away from Tony, sucking in a breath and glaring at Tony with all the disgust and anger he can manage. “I’m not going to lick your goddamn boots,” he snarls. “I’m not your fucking servant, asshole.”

Tony’s face darkens, eyes narrowing, and his hand twitches like he’s about to reach for Quentin, about to make this happen no matter what Quentin wants. He won’t, he  _ won’t— _ he doesn’t know what he’ll do if Tony pushes this, pushes him. He feels hot, a shuddering, tingling wave passing through his body. That Tony would even ask this of him, would try and humiliate him like this, demean him like this— would make him, when he knows perfectly well Quentin not going to risk saying no to him. 

But he will, if Tony tries; he  _ will. _

“Don’t you dare treat me like that,” he says, and it comes out all wrong, too soft. 

There’s a long, strained moment, Quentin tensed to— to do something, if Tony goes for it, something. Tony’s looking at him, frowning faintly, his head tipped to the side, and Quentin doesn’t know what the hell he is thinking. 

He moves, Quentin flinching back, but Tony just brings his leg up, resting his ankle on his other knee. Reaches down and wipes up one of the streaks with his finger, Quentin watching him carefully. 

Offers it to Quentin, so close to his mouth Quentin almost goes cross eyed trying to look at it. It’s— he— 

He feels sick. It’s not licking it off Tony’s foot, face nearly against the ground and Tony watching him the whole time. It’s not, but… it’s still so close. 

It’s probably the best he’s going to get, this compromise Tony is offering him. He has to take it. 

Fuck.

Quentin shoots Tony one last look, last glare, searching for something, some reason Tony’s insisting on this; knows he won’t find one. 

He closes his eyes and opens his mouth. 

Keeps his eyes closed the whole time, as Tony’s finger slides into his mouth, the taste of his own come on it. As Quentin closes his lips around it and licks, sucks it off. As Tony’s hand comes back, again and again, more than seems possible. It’s— it’s easier if he tries not to think about it too much. Tries not to concentrate on the shivery, awful feeling in the pit of his stomach, the way he wants to get away from Tony entirely. He just— he doesn’t know what would happen if he said no, if he made it stick. There’s so much at stake for him, and he knows he’s just another plaything to Tony. It’s risky to say no to this, to anything Tony wants.

He doesn’t think Tony would just shrug and let it go. 

He clenches his fists and tries to ignore the thought of where that come is from. 

Tony stops, eventually, runs out of anything more for Quentin to clean up, but Quentin keeps his eyes closed. He doesn’t want to look at Tony right now. Keeps his eyes closed even when Tony trails his fingers down the side of Quentin’s face instead, delicate. Curves his palm around Quentin’s jaw, fingertips pressed behind his ear, along his neck, and tilts Quentin’s head back. 

It’s gentle, Tony’s hands on him. It’s— it’s a sharp contrast to what Tony just did, how Tony just treated him like he was nothing, the taste of it still in his mouth. This slide between extremes, it’s shifting ground Quentin can’t figure out, can’t find a way to use. He hates it; doesn’t know if he wishes those bits of something almost kind would disappear entirely or if wants it more than— Tony’s other hand is smoothing through his hair, purposely, fussing with bits here and there. Straightening it out, Quentin realizes, trying to undo whatever damage Tony had caused earlier. It won’t be entirely fixable; can’t be, without some sort of gel. It gets… fluffy, without anything in it. Probably is right now.

Tony laughs softly. “Put your cock away,” he says, still messing with Quentin’s hair. Quentin fumbles a bit getting himself tucked in and put back to rights, still refusing to open his eyes. Tony brushes back another piece of hair, a faint touch on Quentin’s brow, and pulls him up a bit. 

Kisses him, warm and deep, kisses him like he hasn’t since— well, not today, for starters. Quentin finds his eyes open without deciding it, looking at Tony. 

Tony tilts his head and tweaks one more strand above Quentin’s ear. “There,” he says. “That’s better. Can’t fix everything,” and he smirks, tapping his finger against Quentin’s lips, and he knows how red and swollen they must look just from how they feel. “But you look almost presentable now, handsome.”

He stands, zipping himself up, slipping on a pair of vivid yellow glasses. He looks like nothing’s happened at all, and Quentin hates him a little. “What do you think you’ll tell them we talked about, hmm?”

“Fuck you,” Quentin says, but it’s weak, flat. 

“Not likely,” Tony says. “Not unless you’re very, very good, and that’s going to be hard for you, isn’t it,” teasing him, fucking teasing him. “I’ll tell them to give you a few minutes,” he adds, heading for the door. 

Quentin glances over as Tony opens it, and fucking— sees people, glancing up at the movement. Catches the eye of the timid guy that transferred in last week, both of them frozen, staring at each other. The door swings shut, cutting them off, and Quentin is horrified. They— they  _ saw _ him, saw him fucking kneeling on the ground, looking like this, god, they saw him and there’s no way they don’t know what was going on here, Jesus fuck—

He jolts to his feet, too fast, swaying as he head spins. Drops into the chair Tony was just in, still warm, and presses his head into his hands. He— he has to go back out there; Tony just swanned by all of them, probably smirking and not being in the least bit subtle and now Quentin has to go back out there looking like this, smelling like this, and finish the rest of his shift. Has to go out and try to work, everyone watching him, knowing that Tony Stark just came down for a— a fucking booty call, Christ. 

How are they supposed to respect him after that? How is anyone with an ounce of common sense supposed to believe he hasn’t been sleeping his way up the ladder, that he hasn’t earned his place in bed? Goddammit, he  _ worked _ for this, he earned it himself, not a single bit of help from anyone. 

He— fuck! He should be feeling smug right now, not like he wants to hide here forever. He might not be high up in the ranks yet, but he’s fucking the boss. He should be flaunting the fact that Tony fucking Stark wants him so much he couldn’t wait even a few hours, couldn’t manage to be discrete or smart about it, just wanted Quentin beyond reason. They should be so envious of him it makes them sick. 

Quentin presses the heels of his hands harder against his eyes, until he sees bursts of light. There’s— there’s a lot of shoulds. A lot of things he should be feeling. And he will, he’ll find them, he’ll make them if he needs to. 

He’s just having a hard time summoning them up right now. 


End file.
